Lambert and the Archeaologist
by mikitta
Summary: A little drabble with Lambert. He's so fun to write dialogue for, even if he couldn't kiss a nun with that mouth. Currently, this story is on hiatus until after real life stops sucking so much and I can settle down and resurrect my imagination.
1. Chapter 1: Through the Portal

"Oh my God, Pheebs! Come look!" The excited voice came from the excavation pit on the Anagar plains, just under five kilometers from the receding edge of the Anagar glacier. Drumlins and kettles dotted the landscape and it was cold as the proverbial witch's mammary.

Phoebe Vagganer's parka hooded and pixieish face popped over the edge of the excavation pit and looked into the upturned eyes of her graduate professor. Charles Deen looked like he was about to split himself crossways with excitement pointing with barely contained excitement at a hole they had unearthed. Shepherds had found this site eighteen months ago, and really, it was miraculous any little bit of the castle survived the glaciation at all. By all reason, it should have been swept away and bits of it that weren't ground to dust deposited for miles along the valley floor.

The last ice age had ended around ten thousand years ago and was thought to have been around fifteen thousand years in duration - ridiculously short for a glaciation. Humans had managed to survive and thrive, however. There had been a structure here, before the start of the Great Frost, as the last ice age was called.

The young woman swung her athletic body around and descended the ladder into the pit, pulling her parka closer around her at the bottom. She loved her work, but really, it was time to get some hot cocoa laced with vodka after this. At heart, she was a girl made for summertime and beach parties.

"Well, do you have a lamp, Chaz?" she asked with a grin as she inspected the keystone of the archway before her. There were vague runic impressions in the newly exposed stone and the girl brought out her soft paint brush and carefully tapped the surface, trying to remove debris from the etchings. "Hmm. Some sort of runes? 7Do we know if the pre-Big Freeze people had writing? Do we have any indication?"

Charles answered her, dropping into his "Lecture" mode. "We have some examples that we BELIEVE are pre-glaciation writing on a large slab found in equatorial Cimaraan. But no one has been able to figure out what they say."

"Well, let's take a look what's inside this cave. If we're lucky, there will be at least a room, some sort of chamber." She took a deep breath and shared an excited look with Charles. He was like a child waiting to blow out the candles on his birthday cake.

They took the larger hand-held spotlight and stepped inside the arch, noting stairs right away that led them downward. It was like that stupid movie, "Varsima James and the Pit of Despair", she thought, supressing a giggle. They descended for what seemed like ages, around and around the interior of what had to be a tower, before they spilled into a large room at the bottom. Phoebe held up her lamp and looked around. No one had been in this structure in at LEAST the last twenty-five thousand years, since the advance of the glaciers on the continent. She was amazed at it's structural integrity.

Her eye was drawn by a sparkle at the far end of the chamber and she moved toward it. Pheobe sucked in her breath at the large crystal that was held in intricate metal fretwork that seemed too pristine to have sat undisturbed for so many millenia. She raised her light and touched the beautiful moonlight teardrop that hung suspended from the lattice.

She later would try to remember exactly the sequence of events, but they were never very clear in her mind. She did know it all started as soon as she moved her battery powered lamp close to the crystal and the light seemed to explode in her hand. After that there was a blue, swirling vortex, a roaring sound and then the falling headfirst into the maelstrom that sprang forth before her when the entire structure shifted toward its far side from where she had been standing.


	2. Chapter 2: In a Swamp

Lambert's wolf's head witcher symbol started to vibrate. "Whoa, Aep'. Let's find out what's going on." He muttered to the animal, looking around the marshlands adjacent to the Yaruga on the northern border of Sodden. His medallion started to dance like a thief on the gibbet and he grabbed it in his fist, feeling the thrumming of the power that was activating it. The roaring sound of a magical portal opening echoed in the swamp to his left and looked southward just in time to see the brilliant flash of a blue and sickly purple vortex as it materialized some eighty yards to the south west of his position. _'Damn mages!'_ The thought had just formed in his mind when he was flattened by the sonic boom that accompanied the portal. That was definitely not normal. His horse reared and bolted in the opposite direction, causing the spar, dark haired man to release a string of curses that were violent, inventive and descriptive in equal measures. He picked himself out of the dusty road and then he heard another sound that had him sprinting in the opposite direction he usually went when it came to magic users and their favored method of transportation.

* * *

Phoebe landed with a plop into the swirling morass of silt and mud, face down and spread eagle. It was as well she'd had the wind knocked out of her since she was in water up to her knees when she finally did regain her feet and sucked in an excruciating lungful of air. She looked at the surface of the water where she had landed and absently noted there were an awful lot of bubbles surfacing while she was struggling with her stunned diaphragm to draw in a breath. That breath, so agonizingly fought for just moments before, was released in a blood curdling scream as she watched what followed the bubbles. Her arctic attire probably saved her life in the melee that ensued. The thing that emerged before her was easily three meters tall, half as broad and stank like the carcass of a rotting water buffalo she had once had the dubious pleasure to encounter on an archaeological expedition in the tropics.

The creature sprang at her rapidly, hooking clawed fingers into the hood of her parka, swiping at the side of her face and ripping off her snow goggles. She was thrown back into the brackish water and stumbled around, seeking footing in the soft bottom. The nightmare's other hand swiped and shredded the back panel of what had been a high quality, outer layer of specialized man made materials designed to keep heat in and wick moisture out. It was just a sodden, torn up mess now. Phoebe desperately crawled away from the creature, her hand encountering something oblong and hard in the mud. Her fingers curled around whatever it was and she threw it up with both hands to protect her face when an impossibly long tongue lashed out at her. The prehensile appendage wrapped around both her hands and began inexorably pulling her toward an insanely toothy maw. The girl struggled as if she were a fish caught on a hook and sobbed her desperation. Gangly arms reached out with razor claws, clasping her in a lover like embrace, hastening her transit toward its mouth. Phoebe stopped struggling, suddenly going with the forward momentum and thrust the oblong object into that mouth filled with wicked, uneven fangs, as hard as she could. She screamed her defiance at the beast then, kicking away as it's talons scored deeply across her back through the remains of her coat.

The monster started to gag then, and choke on whatever it was Phoebe had thrust into it's mouth and down it's gaping hole. It let go of her and began to claw at its own throat with desperate and jerky movements. The girl barely heard the battle cry that sounded behind her, nor took notice of the shadow that flew over her head, bringing the singing, silver edge of his sword down on the shoulder of the bog hag. He cut the thing nearly in two with his first stroke and killed it, watching with satisfaction as is sank back into the muck.

* * *

Lambert rounded on the girl, who had struggled to her feet once again. "What in the fuck-all! What the hell were you doing you dumb bitch!" He raged at her, coming right into her face, his witcher's eyes shooting sparks and his mouth twisting in an ugly grimace. Phoebe just looked at him, not understanding a word he had just roared at her, then started to giggle hysterically. She tilted right, then over correcting herself, she staggered left, directly into his tight body. She looked into his amazing, furious eyes and her own rolled back in their sockets. She would have fallen on her face right back into the swamp if he hadn't caught her. He felt the warm stickiness of blood flow over his hands and indulged in another round of turning the air blue with profanity as he sheathed his silver sword and hauled her over his left shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3:Doctoring

Lambert's friends would never let it be said he didn't have a colorful vocabulary, nor was he shy about voicing his opinion on any given subject using said vocabulary. Sadly the only one in twenty miles that could have possibly appreciated the finer art of inventive profanity was passed out cold over his shoulder. The witcher trudged back to the road through the mire and whistled shrilly for his horse. He hoped the gelding would come without his having to chase it down. Bending down, the man laid the injured girl at the side of the road and inspected what remained of her clothing. He had never seen it's like before. The color made his eyes hurt, throbbing in an absolutely obscene shade of pink with violent yellow patches lined in a sickly, bright green. It had once covered her from the top of her head to just above her knees. He gave up trying to figure out how it was tied on her and pulled his dagger to cut away the mess that entangled her now. Underneath the covering, which was thick with several layers of a softer material and some sort of stuffing, the girl wore a shirt in that same sickening color of pink. Her pants were of the same material as the cloak like thing and she had very strange boots on her feet.

The gelding trotted up, blowing a huff of air down the back of Lambert's gambeson and he stood up. He would need to set up camp here and take care of those wounds or she would die of poisoning and blood loss. He thought briefly about leaving her there to die on her own, but he was a witcher. Saving people was what he did, he just usually required payment first. Lambert quickly removed the horse's tack and saddle, using the saddle blanket to create a bed for the injured girl. Then he sorted through his saddle bags till he found two pouches and a small tea pot. It was the work of but a moment to get a fire going and water heating while he removed the rest of her clothes. She had started to sweat profusely in the short time he had been setting up camp and he figured the clothes she wore weren't suitable for mid summer on the Yaruga in southern Sodden.

She was slim and fine boned, but not short, with a mop of curly brown hair that was plastered to her skull and still dripping water. The top of her head had come just to his chin. He wasn't the tallest of the wolf school witchers, but he stood just a little shy of six foot in his stockinged feet. Her skin was an intriguing golden brown except for a band at her small but plump breasts and at her hips and very tops of her legs. If she hadn't been lying there, wounded and possibly dying in front of him, he would have enjoyed figuring out such a mysterious riddle.

He rolled her over so she lay on her front and moved her head to the side so she could breath. Six lacerations, three to a side, angled up from her spine to the outside edge of her latissimus dorsi. ' _That hag just about made mincemeat of her,_ ' he thought, ' _fuking filthy swamp bitch.'_. The wounds would leave some interesting scars.

Using the heated water and a clean rag to wash the wounds, Lambert set about sewing them up after sprinkling some styptic powder in them. She woke up halfway through his ministrations in a delirious haze and started babbling at him, fighting him tooth and nail. He had to sit on her hips and hook a foot around the back of her neck to keep her in place so he could finish the stitches. Damned if he could understand what she was saying, but it sounded interesting. She started out with screaming, then moved on to agonized pleading and ended with pitiful sobs. She had exhausted herself fighting him by the time he was finished, but still conscious as he smeared the aromatic contents of a jar along the sutures. Her lithe body shuddered with the force of her sobs.

He pulled his bedroll blanket over her, careful of her back, and then inspected her hands and wrists. She watched him, her eyelashes spiking from her tears, through bleary hazel eyes that refused to focus. He started talking to her soothingly then, keeping his voice low and gentle. If Kira Metz had been there to see him, she would have been struck silent for at least five minutes by his behavior. Lucky for him, they had parted ways early in the spring, realizing they got on eachother's nerves way too much to stay together. Even spectacular sex wasn't enough to make up for their deep personality conflicts.

"You got yourself beat to shit back there, girl. Fuckin' lucky to be alive. Not many can boast they survived a hag." Sneered the witcher, "Your odd choice of clothing saved your life, though. Her tongue only got you a little on the outside of your wrists. Had there been any more skin exposed, you would have been fatally poisoned." She just blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

He poured water from his pot into a smaller, metal cup and sprinkled some of the powdered contents of another pouch into it, stirring it with his index finger. He helped her sit up and noticed that her fever bright eyes regarded him suspiciously, though with more lucidity than they had mere moments ago. The witcher encouraged her to drink, holding the cup to her lips. He suppressed a bark of laughter when she made a face and sniffed it. He did laugh at the face she made then and at the stream of unintelligible words that flew from her mouth.

"Ya gotta drink that up," he held the bottom of the cup and urged it again toward her mouth. "It'll neutralize the poison." She continued to glare at him suspiciously, and he took the cup and sipped a little of it himself, to show her it would be ok. The girl held a hand out and took the cup in a shaky grasp, while he helped her tip it's contents through her lips. He was impressed. She only gagged twice, screwing up her face and calling him something in her strange language. Flopping down on the bedding and curling up, she shivered despite the heat of the day.

"Yeah," he said to her huddled form, "it's like that. It's always like that."


	4. Chapter 4:Communication

She must have fallen asleep after that vile brew he had given her, she thought. Phoebe could hear crickets chirping and the air had mellowed to the cool velvet of a summer evening. Laboriously, she sat up, feeling every stitch in her poor, battered back. God, what was that nightmare that attacked her in the swamp? She had never seen anything like it outside of a movie theater or video game. The memory of it made her shudder. She could almost still smell it. No, she COULD still smell it. She looked toward her feet and saw the remains of her clothing, lying in a malodorous heap, lit by the flickering flames of a cheery camp fire. The girl looked around for her benefactor, but he was nowhere to be seen. There was, however, a horse munching on fresh grass just inside the circle of light and something on the fire was bubbling. She gathered the blanket around her and investigated the pot, unable to identify what was boiling away within it. She figured it would be too kind to call it appetizing, but she guessed it must be food. She grabbed the spoon that was laying on a rock nearby and gave the pot a healthy stir, then moved it away from the direct flames using a corner of the blanket as an oven mitt. What ever it was could use some salt and garlic, she thought, as she used her finger to wipe a taste from the bowl of the spoon. Looking around her, she wondered where "here" was. How had she gone from a cold, barren glacial plain to summertime in a swamp? Her head was spinning mildly and she couldn't concentrate to figure that riddle out.

Once more, she hitched the blanket around her naked body and sat back. Her wrists were burning and she looked at the raw, red marks there. They reminded her of a sulfur burn she had seen a guy in her first year chemistry class get when his experiment exploded inside the mixing hood. It had that sickly yellowish white scabbing on a stretch of skin approximately the size of her thumb. Phoebe sat there a moment longer and decided to try to stand. She had to pee like nobody's business, but she would rather not crawl into the woods if she could walk. Pulling her snow boots to her and slipping them on her feet, she laboriously gained her legs. There seemed to be no shortage of appropriate trees. The girl stood, turned and found herself caught up against a hard, unyielding chest, with a snarling wolf's head medallion at nose level. Phoebe swalled her scream and turned it into a surprised yip as her hands came up to steady herself against him, letting the blanket sag to the ground.

' _Lovely_ ,' she thought, ' _I'm in the arms of some strange man, my back feels like it's on fire, I have to pee and all I have on are my boots._ '

He ground out something at her, and it sounded like it might have been sarcastic, if only she could have understood his words. He looked down at her body, then looked back up and grinned at her, his strange eyes igniting in pure lust. That look was universal, she thought, the _lingua franca_ of all men everywhere.

"Dude! Don't EVEN give me that look," she hissed as she stepped back, tangling her feet in the blanket and sitting down hard. An involuntary cry issued from her lips as the stitches in her back pulled. He uttered something she was beginning to recognize, a swear word maybe, and stalked to the saddle bags on the other side of the fire. He stopped and pulled something out of them that he threw at her. She caught it and realized it was a shirt. Phoebe didn't question the offer, just pulled it on quickly, smoothing it down her body. Reaching to mid thigh, it was surprisingly soft and smelled like him and his horse. He came toward her then, with his hand outstretched and she accepted his help to stand up. She cast a surreptitious look at the trees, cut her eyes back to him, blushing slightly and he laughed at her. He turned his back, said something in that tone of his and squatted before the fire, looking at the pot with the food.

She found a spot a little ways off and did her business, wishing she had some toilet paper. The girl desperately hoped the leaves she used to wipe weren't poison ivy or something worse. The man handed her the cup with the spoon stuck in it while he ate out of the pot using a wicked looking dagger.

"Thanks!" she said, sinking to her knees on the horse blanket. She hadn't realized how hungry she was before she took the first bite. It was some sort of animal stew, she decided, finding chunks of meat, potatoes and peas. They ate in silence for a little while before she looked at him, put her hand on her chest and said "Phoebe." Extending her hand to tap his chest, she looked at him inquiringly.

"Lambert." he rumbled and quirked a cocky smirk that pulled an answering grinned from her. At least the introductions were made. She examined him in the firelight and noticed for the first time the two swords sticking out over his right shoulder and reached her hand out to stroke the hilt of one of the weapons. He caught her hand and glared at her, brows crashing down over his golden eyes. She noticed with an unsettling jolt that his eyes glowed like a cat's. She patted his fist then extended her other hand toward his swords tracing the pommel grips lightly. He watched her face as she did so and then suddenly sat back and roared with laughter. She smiled at him and began to chuckle as well.

* * *

Lambert had his share of come ons from women over the years, but this was the first time one of them wanted to touch his swords. Phoebe looked a bit sheepish, but she was laughing along with him.

"Wait till the guys hear this one." He muttered, "They'll never believe me." He pulled out a flask from the saddle bags then and took a swig of vodka, then offered it to her and noticed that she sniffed that too before taking a cautious sip. Her eyes screwed shut and she exhaled a gasp and handed the flask back to him, tapping it with her nail and saying a word. She looked at him inquisitively and he said "vodka." and took another drink. He offered the flask back to her and she shook her head, crinkling her nose at him.

"So, what the hell am I going to do with you?" he wondered aloud. "Not like I can ask you for the law of surprise even though I saved your life, and I can't very well just dump you in the first village we come to. You don't speak the language and they would probably burn you for a witch. Damn and fuck-all. I just got rid of Keira and was enjoying my alone time." he groused.

"Damn and fuck-all," she echoed, followed by a string of words he couldn't understand, and then "Lambert!" and then she laughed. He liked her laugh. It was earthy and clean and he enjoyed the way her nose crinkled when she did it. "Yeah, I'll teach you swear like a witcher. Won't Eskel and Geralt get a kick out of that." Lambert shook his head. He watched as she crawled toward her discarded clothing, enjoying the view of her rounded bottom teasing him from his shirt. The way she moved, though, told him she was really starting to feel those claw wounds and it was time for him to mix up some more willow bark and slather her with more ointment. Graviers and hags were foul, filthy creatures and infection was a very real possibility for the young woman he had rescued. He would need to get her to an herbalist or healer soon. There wasn't much left in lower sodden, but since Ciri had taken over the reins of the Nilfgaardian empire, travel was fairly safe. He would have to get across the river anyway, as he was headed for Cidaris. If memory served, there was a town about two days distant that was reasonably built back up after all the wars and strife.

Phoebe pulled the tight pants he had peeled off her out of the pile with a grimace of distaste for the stinking mass. She sniffed the leggings, harrumphed, then made a wobbly attempt to stand. Being none too stable on her feet, the girl gave up and, sitting with her back to him, wiggled into the leggings. Lambert set the water pot on the embers after filling it from a cateen, then patted the bedding, gesturing for her to lay down. She looked at him in the dying light of the fire and nodded, flopping down on her stomach and trying to lift the hem of the shirt. He stilled her hands and did it for her, nothing how warm to his touch she was, worried about fever as he spread his ointment. She shivered while he ministered to her and there were a couple times she sucked in a gasp or a moan. Her hands were fisted above her head and her face was pressed down into the saddle blanket, her body shuddering in fine shivers before he was done. He helped her back up into a sitting position and held the willow bark infusion for her as she choked it down.

The man arranged his saddle so he could use it as a pillow and settled himself on his back with her at his right. He arranged his swords so they lay next to his left side and covered them both with the blanket, dozing lightly through the night. He noticed that she cuddled closer to him as the hours crept toward dawn. By the time the sun peeked above the eastern horizon, she was draped over his chest with one leg thrown over his, running a fever and fretful in her sleep. Her hair had fluffed out as it dried and it stuck up all over her head. He supposed they could both do with a bath after the encounter with the hag. Slipping his hand up her shirt to touch skin, he felt the heat from her stitched flesh. His other hand was anchored at her waist and that is how she awakened, his hands on her body as she lay intimately pressed against him.

"Good morning," he murmured into her sleepy face.

She grunted, squinted at him and groaned into his chest. _'So, not a morning person.'_ He thought and then patted her shoulder. She groaned and rolled off him, then hissed as her back hit the blankets. Moaning, she curled up on herself, trying not to vomit as the pain washed over her.


	5. Chapter 5:Seeking Help

At first Phoebe couldn't think why she was sleeping on top of a man. Next to a camp fire. In the great outdoors. Her eyes felt grainy and her body incredibly stiff. He said something to her in his mocking growl with that sarcastic grin on his face and she just grunted at him and rolled away. The pain took her by surprise and all the events of the previous day came crashing back to her in a solid wave. She was curled up on her side, sucking air through her teeth when she felt him lift the back of her shirt. It was sticking in places to her wounds and she tried hard not to whimper, but a few came out despite her best efforts.

He was mumbling something and she pushed herself to a sitting position, grabbing her knees and resting her forehead on them. She felt like puking.

"Thank you," her voice was muffled. She turned her head and regarded him, then twisted to to look at her back. He yelled at her then and all she recognized were the words "dammit" and "fuck". She wondered what they meant. He spread some more of his ointment over the lacerations then moved toward the fire to kick dirt over it. She got up, with some difficulty, and put her boots back on then went to find the same tree she had used the night before. Phoebe took her time limping back into camp, looking around at the countryside. Gentle hills rolled down toward a river, which she cold hear in the distance over the chatter of birds and squirrels. The air smelled sweet and lazy with the promise of a glorious, hot day.

Lambert was packing away the bedroll and other camp things on the horse, which he had saddled. She guessed he didn't want to sit around here all day, on the side of what looked like a dusty, rutted track. Sorting through what was left of her clothing, Phoebe pulled out her small notebook and pencil, her cell phone and it's solar charger, a whistle and her paint brush. It was just a cheap department store special, but it was useful for brushing debris from artifacts at the digs she had been on and she found herself rediculously attached to the silly thing. Her clothing was pretty much toast, the girl discovered, not that it was appropriate for summer wear. She was already too warm in the long johns she had put on the night before and her feet were positively sweltering in the boots, but they preserved a little dignity and kept her from cutting her feet to ribbons in the brush. She finished ripping the sleeves off the ruined under shirt and fashioned a makeshift pouch that she could put her stuff in and tie around her waist.

The man was looking at her with those disconcerting eyes of his, standing by his horse and she walked over to him. The horse nickered to her and she patted it's neck as she really got a good look at her savior. Slim fingers traced the scar on his face as Phoebe inspected his eyes intently. He said something else with a few "damns" and other words she was beginning to recognize and pulled away from her.

"Jeepers, creepers, where'd you get those peepers. I've never seen eyes like that before. You look human enough, though." She muttered and then grinned at him. He just stared down at her, succeeding in his attempt at intimidation. She blushed and looked down at her feet, aware that her back was going to give her lots of trouble.

Lambert made a gesture to the horse then stooped to fashion a cradle out of his hands about waist level in front of her. She guessed he wanted her to mount the horse so she put her right foot in his hand, grasped the saddle and steadied herself against his shoulder. He threw her into the saddle then leapt up behind her. ' _This isn't going to work_ ', she thought, as he came up against her back sending waves of pain washing over her. She tried to tough it out, but it hurt more than anything ever had in her life. She leaned over the horse's neck and clenched her teeth, trying not to be a whiner. The man just grunted, cursed and gently arranged her so both her legs were over one side of the horse's flanks, draped over one muscular thigh, and she was sitting cradled in his lap. She circled his waist with her arms, rested her head against the linked chains and leather of his gambeson and tried to not throw them both off the mount.

Phoebe became increasingly stiff and sore as the day wore on, even breathing became an agony. He rode with her like that for several hours before he finally jumped down and started leading the animal in their westerly course.

"Lambert," said the girl. He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. She patted the neck of the horse and then said "Horse" and looked at him again, inquisitively. He obliged with her game and gave her the word in his language then with the name of the beast "Ceann'aeparse". She repeated the strange word and he laughed as if at some private joke. They spent the remainder of the day walking down the road with her pointing to things, naming them in her language and him giving her the names in his.

They stopped only when the sun was setting before them and he helped her down. Phoebe was stiff and sore, felt more than a little woozy and she staggered once her feet touched the ground. Lambert caught her, though, and let her get her feet under here before he let her go. She thought that was awful nice.

* * *

Lambert steadied her, admitting that he liked how she felt in his arms. Maybe she would show her gratitude when her back was healed enough for some fun. If she ever got better. His frown furrowed his brow in a worried knot. Phoebe was stiffly walking around, stretching her abused muscles and picking up sticks and small branches that she didn't have to struggle too much with. He indicated where he wanted to lay the fire and she obliged by setting her small stack of wood there, then went to collect more. When he used igni to start the fire, she looked at him with a shocked expression. He just smirked and shrugged his shoulders.

They got camp set up, but Phoebe seemed dulled, too tired to continue the naming game. He sat by her and rolled up her shirt to look at the wounds, then sucked in his breath. They were red and hot to the touch and she seemed fevered.

He had one more application of his ointment and used it liberally, wrapped the girl in the blanket and then in his gambeson, trying to keep her warm. She had started to shiver half way through the treatment with the ointment. One more day of travel would see them in a village, and hopefully a village healer that would be willing to help the girl. He hunkered down next to the fire and sat holding her in his lap, meditating rather than sleeping through the night. Lambert had roused before dawn and ended up tying her to his saddle when he couldn't rouse her. She was out of her head and mumbling in fever dreams, calling out to someone named Chaz and another named Mitzi. Around four in the afternoon, Phoebe stopped raving and he thought she may have slept. He had dribbled water down her throat as they went, knowing dehydration was death to anyone with infection.

They didn't reach the town of Cloeston until close to sundown. Looking in his pouch, Lambert swore at his dearth of funds. He really couldn't afford an inn for the amount of time it would take to make her well, but maybe he could find a someone here who would take her in while he got some contracts.

Eventually, the witcher was directed to a little hut outside town where an old herbalist lived in isolation. He banged on the door and light spilled out as it opened to him. Quickly he explained to the little old woman that his companion was very ill and needed her help. She explained she would give him help, but he had to do something for her. At the local graveyard. Dealing with something that was disturbing graves both fresh and established. He agreed and got down to work. It was what he was made for, after all.


	6. Chapter 6:Awakening

Phoebe didn't know how long she spent suspended in a place of pain and shivering cold that alternated with sweltering heat. All she knew now was that she was finally pleasantly warm and the pain had mercifully receded. Opening her eyes, the girl gazed at Lambert slumped in a chair before the bed. He looked done in as he dozed with his arms crossed over his chest. She was amused to know he snored. She rolled her shoulders, feeling a residual soreness in the muscles, and wondered how they had gotten here. The last thing she remembered was getting off his horse on that second night with him.

Phoebe stretched her back and realized she no longer had stitches. How long HAD they been here? She tried to sit up, and felt weak as a kitten and more than a little dizzy, but she managed it.

Lambert said something in a low voice to her then, startling her. He was still slouching in the chair with his arms crossed, but his eyes were opened enough that she could see them shine at her.

"Lambert. You look like crap." she smiled, marveling how grainy her voice sounded. She took stock of where they were and looked around. The hut was small, one room only. There was a single, narrow bed with a straw tick mattress and rough blankets which were slipping off her and the one chair that he was lounging in. Next to the bed, a small table held a dirk, some coins and pouch of herbs. A cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace. Outside, she heard rain patter, smelling the clean scent on the drafts that blew a blanket covering the doorway in gentles waves. A small, open window let in what ambient light was available in the gloom of the rainstorm. In terms of primitive, she had stayed in less lavish places, she supposed. At least it seemed the roof didn't leak, and that was a good thing considering the thunder that growled from time to time.

She looked at the the man and said, trying to remember the words, "Wounds on back? No hurt? Stitches?"

He sat up straighter and said words in his language, but she got the gist that the stitches were gone and the wounds were healed. She stuck a hand behind her and felt the raised edges of the scars that she could reach. They must be horrible to look at. Something of what she was thinking must have shown in her face because Lambert sat up straighter and grasped her hand, giving her a genuine smile and tucking his hand under her chin.

"Doesn't matter now, I guess. I'll never be able to rock a bikini again. At least there are always tank tops." she shrugged her shoulder and laughed in a self deprecating manner.

Phoebe belatedly realized she was naked beneath the thin blanket and she needed to get up. Spotting her clothing draped over the end of the bed she reached for it, groaning as she stretched. She had a feeling they had been there for some time if her wounds were healed. The girl tucked the blanket around her and tried to stand up, then promptly fell back on the bed as she realized her weakness.

"Well, it seems we've been here a good long while if I can't even walk." Her head dropped into her hands and she took a deep breath. "Ok, going to try this again…"

The man simply watched her, with a smart ass grin on his face as she used him to steady herself. She was wobbly but got her feet under her. Phoebe's legs gave out when she tried to take a step and she ended in Lambert's lap, desperately trying to hold up the blanket as his arms came around her.

* * *

Fool woman was trying to walk, but then Lambert couldn't blame her, he would be doing the same thing. He looked down into her face, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. There wasn't much of her, though. She had lost weight during her illness and needed some fattening up, even through the blanket he could count her ribs. He figured a strong gust would blow her away.

"Well, let's get some clothes on you so you can eat." He murmured, gazing into her eyes, trying to figure out if they were brown or green. A little of both he decided and would bet they changed color with her moods. Her arms had come around his neck when she fell and she seemed as loath to move as he. Her small hand came around to cup his cheek, rubbing against the bristle and then tracing his scars. He could hear her heartbeat, steady and increasing in tempo. Lambert leaned in toward her and kissed her, gently, as if afraid she might break, gratified when she kissed him back. Slowly, he swept one hand down her shoulder, to pull the blanket aside, his fingertips brushing the mementos the hag had left her.

She pushed away from him, grasping the blanket, her face scarlet and she shook her head. She said something and he wished, not for the first time, he could understand her. He brushed her scars again, then and she retreated a little farther into her self, flinching, and thought maybe he understood.

He helped her back to the bed and stripped off his gambeson and then his shirt. Standing before her, she could see every score on his torso, souveniers from contracts nearly gone sour. There was a set of three across one side of his chest. He picked up her hand and laid it across the deeply scored lines in his flesh.

"Hag." he said. Then moved her hand to a ragged scar that drew crooked smile just under his ribs. "Leshan.". He turned his back to her and her fingers fluttered along what appeared to be a huge bite mark on his shoulder. His laugh rumbled in his chest and he said "Katakan."

"They all have stories, Phoebe. Every fucking one of them. They say I didn't die in stinking swamps or gods forsaken ruins. The bastards tried to kill me, but they couldn't do it. All they could do is give me a trophy to remember how I fucked them for good."

He turned around to her and whipped the blanket down her back and laid his hands on her scars. She tried to scuttle away from him, but he wouldn't let her. Lambert traced every score and kissed the top one, his hands holding her in place.

"These are your trophies." his breath rasped against her skin, "These say you didn't die in some fucking swamp to some fucking monster. You lived!"

She was weeping. Oh fuck all. He didn't know what to do with a woman's tears. He pulled her into his arms, back against his chest and held her. Yeah, Geralt and Eskel would laugh their asses off to see him turned nurse and counselor to a frail maid who'd had her back ripped open by a fucking necrophage. Frail. Lambert laughed at the thought and hitched her solidly into his lap, snuggling her deeper there as he reclined against the wall, stroking her in soothing sweeps down her shoulder and back.. She'd survived and that made her pretty tough in his estimation.

He no longer really considered getting anything from her for his part in saving her life. An old druidess he had met years ago told him that someone who saved another's life became responsible for them and the person who was saved became indebted in ways that went far beyond mere money. He wondered if that was like the law of surprise, if she was bound to him by destiny. She was certainly bound by necessity. He looked down and saw she had cried herself to sleep against his chest and he felt something squeeze near the vicinity of the cold lump that might once have been his heart. Must have been the mutton he had for lunch, he thought.

* * *

Phoebe felt warm, safe and protected when she awoke in his arms. The rain was still coming down outside and the temperature in the hut was cool for a summer afternoon. She was between Lambert's legs, with her head pillowed on his bare chest. One of his hands was cupped to the side of her head and the other was curled around her upper arm. She could feel his slow, even breathing and the steady, if almost lazy, drubbing of his heartbeat.

"Mmmm, Lambert?" She whispered and felt him shift from sleep to wakefulness. He regarded her with lazy eyes and stroked her hair and she smiled at him, crinkling her nose. She pushed herself upright and sat there, in the cradle of his thighs. "Could I please have a shirt?" They had covered the name of the garment in the first two days they had been together and she was pleased to remember the word. He reached down to the floor and tossed her his, then folded his arms behind his head to watch her put it on. The grin on his face was wolfish and his eyes hooded. Phoebe turned her scars to him and pulled the garment over her, using the chair to stand up.

Lambert looked her over, frowning and saying something that had a "fuck-all" and a "damn" in it. He carefully stood beside her and wrapped a hand around her waist and held her arm with the other one, then helped her to take care of her business. Phoebe was pale and shaking by the time she was done so he scooped her into his arms and carried her back into the hut.

Before he put her back on the bed she held his cheek in her hand and looked into his so, so strange eyes. "I know you can't understand most of what I'm saying. But I want you to know how grateful I am that you were my rescuer, Lambert." She smiled at him and kissed his other cheek then curled her arms around his neck and hugged him. She liked how he smelled. Not like the men from her world, with their aftershave and pomades, rather Lambert smelled of ancient forests, horses and leather, and she burrowed her nose into his neck, breathing it in.

His chest rumbled against her with his laughter. She liked his laugh, not the sarcastic bark she had heard when they were first together, this was genuine and it made her want to crawl inside him.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, and she was pleased to realize that she understood what he said.

"A little." She nodded and he gently set her on the bed and handed her a cup of water then donned another shirt, then his armor and weapons. He pulled a small hourglass from one of his many pouches and showed it to her, then put it on the little table, tapped it and muttered something. He then said "back." and tapped the hourglass one more time.

She nodded. He would be back by the time the hourglass ran out. He leaned in and kissed her forehead then stalked out of the house, his swords riding his back. She heard his horse snort then the jingle of harness as the man left her alone … wherever this was.

Well. She had an hour. And the rain was coming down pretty hard. Phoebe figured it had been too long since she had been clean and even if she had to crawl around on all fours, she was going to bathe. Lambert had left his satchel and she went through it, finding all manner of interesting jars full of even more interesting concoctions. She wouldn't open those unless she could not find any …. SOAP! It was a simple, small bar wrapped in an oilcloth, smelling of sage and pine, and finely milled at that. ' _Surprise surprise,'_ she thought, these people had a pretty complex culture and level of technology. She did indeed end up mostly crawling to get her shower.


	7. Chapter 7:Old Friends

Lambert dismounted his gelding just outside the tavern, noticing a roan mare and a black stallion also tethered to the hitching post. He took a look at the saddle and said "Roach?". The horse nickered at him and tossed her head in greeting. His eyes scanned the crowded pub upon entry and saw them.

"What the hell! Geralt! What are you and Yennifer doing in this backwater. Thought you were down in Toussant for good!"

The white haired witcher rose and clasped hands with his brother wolf and grinned. "We got bored and Yen wants to find some old elven tower or other. Since we're retired, we can do what we want."

"And since Geralt detests portals, we've decided to make it a sightseeing holiday." purred the raven haired sorceress, smiling at her mate.

Geralt of Rivia said, "What are you doing here, Lambert? Just on your way through?"

"You could say that but I've been here for a couple weeks. Ran into some trouble east of here and rescued a woman who got in trouble with a hag." huffed the younger witcher, "Fuckin' locals are ready to see the tail end of me, but she's not ready to travel yet."

Yen raised an eyebrow, but it was the White Wolf who said "Why not just leave her with a local healer and move on? Never thought you would play nursemaid."

Lambert sneered, "Yeah, yuck it up, you son of a bitch. She can't even speak our language. Or any language that I'm familiar with. Strange too - she came through a portal. Thought she was a mage, but she isn't."

That peaked their interest and they began to question him.

"Look," he said, "why don't you come back to the house I'm using. It was an abandoned farmstead, about fifteen minutes south of here. Didn't have the coin to put up here at the in and she was dying."

"She is recovered now?" asked Yennifer.

"Phoebe just woke up this morning. I'm getting some food and clothes since she has nothing but the shirt off my back. Soon as she can travel, we'll leave."

"What happened with Kiera? Last I heard you were traveling with her to cure the Catriona." grumbled the older witcher.

"It didn't work out. Sex was great, but that's really all we had and I got tired of putting my ass on the line to earn it."

Geralt laughed at that and gestured toward the waiting barkeep, who looked less than eager to take Lambert's order. It was thus something less than an hour later that the three of them rode into the farmyard and Lambert began to swear loudly and creatively. He jumped off his mount before it had come to a stop and stalked toward the naked figure standing on a wooden plank in the yard, yelling at her and gesticulating with his hands out to his sides.

The first thing that Yennifer of Vengerberg noticed was that the girl was too slim. She was tall, but so willow thin as to look frail. The second thing she noticed were the six scars along her back when she whipped away from the entourage and covered her breast and groin with her hands. The third thing she noticed was the girl, though shaky, held her ground as she yelled back at the angry witcher "Fuck a duck, Lambert." For some reason, Geralt found that funny. Yennifer's lips twitched, too, but she wouldn't allow herself to laugh. The pair of them continued to observe as the girl seemed to wilt, as if her legs simply didn't have the strength to hold her up. Then Lambert scooped her up, still boiling forth a stream of verbal abuse about stubborn women, and stalked into the house with her.

When Lambert's friends entered the hut, Yennifer holding the covered stew pot, they found the wiry witcher pacing back and forth across the single room. The girl had a mulish expression on her face and her arms were crossed under her small bosom, clothed now in one of Lambert's shirts. She huffed and started speaking to him in a language neither of them had heard before. Then she looked up at them and blushed furiously, turning to stare at the wall.

"Geralt, why don't you and Lambert go take care of our horses and I'll see to feeding …. ?"

"Phoebe." Lambert growled giving the girl an angry glare.

"Yes, well, Phoebe and I shall get acquainted and you and Geralt shall take care of the horses." Said the black haired sorceress. "Which I am convinced should take you a goodly amount of time." She gave Geralt a pointed look that he knew indicated he was being dismissed. He thought about arguing then caught sight of the stormclouds in Lambert's face and dragged the younger man out behind him.

"Now, dear. I am sure you are hungry. We'll just get you a bowl of this stew. It is very good you know." Yennifer looked at the young woman and saw she was regarding her curiously. The girl harrumphed and started muttering in her strange language as she studied the black and white clad woman before her. Yen handed her a full bowl and sat down on the chair by the bed and studied her right back. The girl sniffed the stew, nodded and began to eat slowly.

"Well then, since we have you eating, it's time we were able to understand each other." The sorceress stood and began weaving a spell. Phoebe looked on in alarm as every hair on her body stood up straight. Light pulsed over her and an eldritch wind ruffled the bedding.

"That should be better. Can you understand me now?" Yen's tone was cultured and quiet. Phoebe nodded, the light of understanding dawning in her eyes.

"How … h… how did you do that?" She stuttered.

"Quite simple really. It's just magic. A very common thing, I assure you."

"Magic. Huh. Hags, men with swords, sorceresses. Yah, very common." She took another bite of the stew, trying to eat slowly and hoping this wouldn't make her sick. She remembered watching people come off a fast at some ancient temple in the orient several year ago.

"My name is Yennifer and the witcher with the white hair is Geralt. We are friends of Lambert. Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Phoebe looked at the beautiful woman and felt the lack of good clothes, or indeed, much in the way of any clothing and thought this might be what a primitive woman from any number of tribes she had visited might have felt about her, notwithstanding that she didn't think she was any kind of beauty.

"My professor and I were on a dig. I'm an archaeology student pursuing an advanced degree. It was about a mile from the headwall of one of the glaciers in the far east. We uncovered the entrance to some sort of tower. Inside was an artifact, a glowing stone suspended in some sort of metalwork scaffolding. I was inspecting the thing and it suddenly, I don't know, activated? Then the whole tower shifted. Probably slumped in the ground from being disturbed, and I fell into …. I don't even know how to describe it."

Yennifer nodded to herself. "You somehow activated a teleport stone and the resulting portal landed you here. The question in my mind is where was that tower."

Phoebe finished her stew and put the bowl on the table. Rising to her feet, trying to keep her gait steady, she retrieved her mocked up pouch and extracted an object. Bending over it for a few seconds, she smiled in triumph when it lit up.

"Ok, it's easier to show you than to try to tell you. We don't have commonality to provide place references that we would mutually understand." She touched the object, which was glowing in her hand a couple of times, peered at it, then touched it some more.

Yennifer silently cast a detect magic spell and was very surprised when she sensed nothing more than the two witchers, who she knew were hanging around the door flap, listing in on the conversation. Men. Especially witchers. They were so transparent.

"Ok. Here it is. I saved the app on my phone so I would be able to access it even where there wasn't any service. SOO glad I did that."

She held out the object so Yennifer could see the picture on it.

"This is a world map. You can see all the continents. This up here near the top, that's the ice sheets. They are still receding after the last glaciation." Phoebe tapped on the glassy surface of her phone again, causing the picture to shift. "This is where the Anagar glacier is and here," she tapped again, making the picture grow as if the observer were falling out of the sky toward some objective within it, "is where the site is."

The landmasses were familiar, but unfamiliar in a very strange way. Yennifer snapped, "Can you show me the whole continental mass again?" Phoebe nodded and did something with her forefinger and her thumb that made the picture shift once more.

"This here, this bit of coast resembles the Gulf of Praxeda, but it is different, somehow."

"And where is that in relation to where we are now?" questioned the younger woman.

"Hmm. I think it would be .. here." Yen touched the screen then jumped back a little as it rushed in to center on the point she had touched.

"Not far from the city of Ciantorie. At least that's what we call it." The girl did some mental calculations then said, "IF we assume that this is the same world I come from … perhaps we can assume I came back in time, to before the Great Freeze. I could as easily have gone forward in time, I suppose, but that tower was older than the glacier field, and Anagar Glacier is approximately twenty-six thousand years old." She stared at the screen, letting it sink in.

"You are telling me that you are from twenty-six thousand years in my future?"

"Likely longer. It's still quite warm here. We know that the cooling event that spawned the last ice age was global and fairly gradual, though it stretched on both sides of the equator, leaving only a forty degree window wherein humanity survived. Barely. It seems we lost a great deal in the the fifteen thousand years of the ice age." Phoebe shook her head in awe. "By the time this glacier is born, you will have been dead for a thousand years or more so you don't have to worry you need to get a new overcoat." Phoebe grinned, then yawned. "How long will this … this translation … spell … last?"

"Maybe another hour. I can enchant a bauble for you that will make the effect permanent while you wear it. It allows you to hear us in your language and you to speak in ours."

"Quite a useful thing to have." She said as she laid down on the bed, all her energy seeming to flow out of her at once. "Thank you, Yennifer. I think I have been very fortunate that Lambert is the one who came to my rescue."

The sorceress nodded her head and exited the little hut, passing by the two witchers standing on either side of the door as she did.

"Do you think you can speak to her without tearing her head off, Lambert?" asked Yennifer, "She's quite an interesting young woman and seems very intelligent. We'll speak more tomorrow." The sorceress stepped further out in the yard, raised her hands and gathered the power to her, then conjured an opulent tent across the clearing.

"Come, Geralt, let's give them their privacy. I wish to discuss something with you." She said as she disappeared into the tent.

Geralt chuckled at the look on the younger witcher's face. "Yeah, don't yell at her too much. I'm looking forward to meeting her tomorrow and you have two weeks of acquaintance to sort out."

"I wouldn't have yelled at all if she hadn't done something so ass stupid as stand in the rain in the raw."

Geralt tossed Lambert something and said "How else was she going to take a shower? Women like to be clean. At least any that are worth spending time with do." he grinned lecherously and followed his sorceress inside the tent, closing the flap with a snap of finality.


	8. Chapter 8:Satisfaction

Phoebe was curled up on the bed, holding something that was shining a light in her face when he entered and put the soap on the table. She looked like a sleepy child, and that funny burning started in his chest again.

"Whatcha got there, Phee?" he asked quietly, taking a seat in the chair.

"It's nice to actually talk to you and be able to understand." She smiled at him and he watched for the crinkling of her nose. Yes, there it was. "Yennifer told me her spell would last about another hour, so we can actually talk. Thank you for everything. Thank you for saving my life and for taking care of me."

Lambert pulled his boots off and dropped them on the floor, thinking about his words.

"It's what I do. What I am. Geralt and I, we're witchers, made to protect people." His swords followed the boots, but were slung on the back of the chair, along with his gambeson. Phoebe watched as he disrobed, chewing her lip.

"Phee, I've slept on the floor or in that chair for the last ten days. I'm going to sleep in that bed tonight." He pointed adamantly "You can either sleep beside me or on the floor, your choice." He kept his voice neutral and his expression bland.

"Well," she deadpanned, "You are warm, and make a nice pillow. I suppose I can share with you. Just don't steal the blanket." The corner of her mouth tipped up as if trying to smile.

"Move over." He groused, "And what is that thing you have?"

She scooted as far as she could to give him room. He was stripped to his knickers and she saw more scars covered his legs. "It's called a cell phone. Where I'm from, this takes the place of libraries, letters, plays, and town criers. We use it to compute mathematical formulas and to navigate our way around the world. We capture pictures to remind us of where we've been and who we've been with. We talk to our loved ones, our colleagues, and even sometimes our enemies using it." She sighed, "But here, it's a novelty, and a paper weight if I don't get the battery charged tomorrow." She pressed a button on the side of the device and the the thing tinkled then went dark. She sat up and leaned over him to put it on the table, next to her bowl, her small breasts pressing into his chest. Lambert's hand caressed her thigh and he stared at her with his bedroom eyes.

"I almost died, didn't I." Phoebe murmured, "I mean, after the hag, I got sick. I remember getting off your horse on that day we spent traveling, and then I don't remember anything after that."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It was close. But you didn't, so it's all good." He wrapped her in his arms, resting one hand on the swell of her hip.

"What, exactly, is a witcher, Lambert?" She asked, snuggled on his chest, her hand playing with his wolf's head medallion.

"It means I hunt monsters and save damsels in distress."

"Ahh, what do you get out of the deal?" She was tracing the wolf's muzzle with a fingertip and wouldn't look at him.

"Well, usually I get paid. Village ealdermen take up a collection from villagers, or a nobleman contracts with me, to go kill whatever it is that is causing them problems. When I complete the job, they pay me and I go on my way."

"I have nothing to pay you for saving my life, not just once, but over and over." Phoebe's voice was soft, sleepy.

Lambert caressed her side, following the contour of her waist, spreading out upon her ribs,then back down over her hip to her thigh, slowly making its circuit. "You don't owe me anything." He shifted so he was facing her and his hand started running up and down her back underneath her shirt.

"I owe you everything." she said, then kissed his lips, her hand stroking the ragged scar on his belly on it's way to his back. He groaned and returned her kiss, bidding them open so his tongue could delve into the heated recess of her mouth. His manhood had risen to painful attention at her touch.

"Don't think you have to do this out of gratitude, Phee. I don't require any payment, of any kind, from you."

"I want you, Lambert. Believe me, no amount of gratitude would land me in your arms if this wasn't where I wanted to be."

He tried to be gentle, mindful of how delicate she still was, but she wouldn't let him. Even her simplest touches inflamed him until he was rocking within her body to a fierce tempo. When he heard her cry at the height of her passion, he followed her over the edge. They fell asleep, entangled in each other, under the blanket that the witcher threw over them just before he succumbed to the deepest sleep he had enjoyed in years.


	9. Further Understanding

**So, yeah. I thought the story was done, too … but then I got to thinking and maybe it's not so done yet.**

* * *

Lambert awoke with an armful of warm, soft woman spooned into his body and smiled. The first glimmers of dawn peeked through the cabin's tiny window and the song of morning birds searching for breakfast gave notice that the day would be glorious. He curled closer to Phoebe, cupping one breast in his hand, enjoying the texture of a stiffening nipple between his fingers. The lean witcher breathed in her scent, the warm spice of last night's lovemaking arousing him in the cool dawn. The girl's lashes fluttered, revealing sleep smoked eyes and he couldn't resist leaning in to kiss her, cupping her jaw as his tongue teased passed her lips to sip her sweetness. Their lovemaking was slow, a tender discovery of each other as they touched and tasted. When he sensed she was close to orgasm, Lambert made Phoebe look at him and he drowned in the shimmering emeralds of her eyes as she shattered in release, tipping him over the edge of bliss with her.

They lay entangled for a time till she pushed against him so she could get up. Finding his shirt draped on the chair, she shrugged into it as he chuckled, murmuring something incomprehensible in his language. Lambert rose from the bed and stretched, displaying his well muscled body and Phoebe was tempted to touch. But it was time to get up and she was sure he was as hungry as she when the loud gurgle of his belly rumbled in the cabin. They both laughed like children as the witcher drew on knickers and britches, then cursed as he looked for the shirt she had been wearing the night before, finally finding it under the bed. Chewing on her bottom lip, Phoebe looked for her leggings, realizing now all she had in the world was Lambert's shirt to cover her nakedness. With a smirk, the witcher ambled to his saddlebags and drew out a pretty, red skirt. With a flush of pleasure, the girl donned the clothing, twirling to make the hem swirl around her ankles, then stumbling into her lover's arms when she lost her balance.

* * *

Geralt found them like that when he poked his head past the blanket covered doorway. They stared into each other's eyes, moonstruck and perilously close to a passionate kiss. The White Wolf cleared his throat and had to suppress a grin when his brother wolf's head snapped up in surprise.

"Glad to see you finally gave her something more than your shirt to wear, Lambert." Grated the white haired witcher, his lips twitching with the effort not to sneer.

"Damn, haven't you ever heard of knocking, Geralt?" The dark haired Wolf tucked Phoebe close to his side as he straightened up.

The gargled sound that emerged from Geralt's throat might have been a laugh. "You're a witcher, should have heard me at the door. Love making your head soft or something?"

"Fuck you, Geralt." Lambert sneered, less than amused. Phoebe looked between the men, sensing the brotherly bond in their sarcastic interplay that belied the angry expression on her lover's face. Clearing her throat, she disentangled herself from the younger witcher and walked through the door into burgeoning sunshine, letting the blanket flap down behind her. Lambert watched her go, a worried crease forming on his brow as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Geralt's hand fell on his brother's shoulder. "Don't worry. Yen'll take care of her. She sent me to wake you lovebirds up in the first place. Breakfast is ready."

A quick trip to the privy and a quicker wash in a bucket of cold water brightened Phoebe's already good mood. She would have to set her phone charger up in the sunshine. She shook her head. Even now she was addicted to advanced technology. She thought Charles would have laughed at the idea. Her mood dimmed a little as she thought of her professor. Phoebe looked around the little yard, taking in the magic tent on one end and the rough wooden hut on the other. She was a very long way from home and felt a sharp pang thinking she might never see her friends or family again. Yennefer found her gathering wool at the well, interrupting her thoughts with a small smile and cultured greeting. The dark haired beauty held a pendant suspended on a fine silver chain out to the girl, smiling as Phoebe slipped it over her head.

"Now, that's better. Keep that on and you should be able to communicate with anyone whose language you don't understand." Yennefer said, adjusting the lay of the pendant on Phoebe's shirt with a motherly pat. "I intentionally made the spell broad spectrum. What use would it be if you only spoke one dialect of Nordish?"

Phoebe laughed. "This would come in handy where I'm from. Language is a constant barrier."

The women spoke softly for a few minutes before the witchers joined them. Yennefer led the way into the magical pavilion to reveal a sumptuous dining table laid with silver service. The aroma of something delicious rose from the covered dishes and Phoebe had to keep herself from running forward to dig right in. She was starving!

The company seated themselves and, with a wave of the sorceress's hand, the covers were removed to reveal roasted capon, stewed spicy pears and crusty loaves of pumpernickel seemingly fresh from the oven. They broke bread together and Phoebe had to pace herself. She concentrated on a small portion of the fowl sandwiched in the bread with a dollop of mustard. The food was delicious and comforting as the girl listened to Yennefer describe the tower she was seeking.

"That brings me to you." The sorceress nodded her head toward the girl. "I believe the tower you discovered in your time is the teleport mate to one I seek, the Tower of the Magpies. _Tor Naev'demèir Méan'lleach_ in elder, literally The Tower of the Nine Thieving Birds. I believe yours would be _Tor A_ _dyr'n_ , or Tower of the Sparrow."

The young woman brushed her thumb across her lower lip in thought as Geralt sat forward. "The ancient elves liked birds. Tower of the Swallow, Tower of the Gull, now Tower of the Magpies and Sparrows?"

Yennefer nodded sagely. "They saw birds as free, able to fly from one place to another, so their teleport system was named in honor of our feathered friends." Idly sketching doodles in a bit of spilled salt, she continued. "There was an entire network of these towers before humans came to the continent, stretching from deep in the Dragon Mountains to the north, all the way south of Nazaire. Amongst the flock that we know the most of, there is the Gull and the Swallow, two Swans and a Kestrel. The Magpies are almost forgotten by history and outside of the deepest academia, no one has ever heard of the Sparrow. I'm sure there were more, perhaps one for every type of bird."

Phoebe was deep in thought. "I can't say for sure if the tower I was in had anything to do with birds, but we found quite a few stone artifacts in the south, carbon dated to before the Big Freeze, that had birds etched into them." She shrugged. "It could have been anything, though. I'm still not sure when or where this is in relation to my own place and time, so anything I could contribute would be mere conjecture."

Yennefer eyed the witchers. "I could help determine that, but I need reagents, components for the spell." Lambert groaned and Geralt rolled his eyes. "Hmm. Hippogriff brain and a chimera tail with poison glands intact. Is that doable, Geralt?"

The white haired witcher scratched his chin. "Hippogriffs are rare, but there might be chimera in the area." He looked at Lambert with a raised eyebrow.

"I heard of something that might be a hippogriff off to the south in the Suddouth valley." The lean man grunted, running a hand along the back of his head. "I suppose I could check that out if you want to find the other beast."

"No! This sounds way too dangerous!" Phoebe objected, her alarmed eyes seeking Lambert's calm gaze. "I won't put either of you at risk to just determine how far I fell through that … that portal!"

Lambert took her hand, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. " Hey, it's what we are. We hunt monsters."

Her tawny curls bounced as she shook her head in vehement denial. "Not for me. Not because of me."

The lean witcher was nonplussed as her eyes turned to darkened storm clouds, glistening with the threat of tears. Lovers had always wanted something from him. Whores wanted money. Keira had expected witcher services. Phoebe was the first woman of his experience who wasn't demanding he do something on her behalf. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it lightly. "I'm curious enough to find out on your behalf, Phee. Don't worry. It's not like I've never done this before."

"Witchers are professionals, my dear." Purred the sorceress. "Geralt and Lambert know what they're doing and I have no doubt they'll return in no time with the reagents I need." She sighed. "The spell has broader applications, anyway, and I was going to bring it up to Geralt had we not run into you."

Lambert didn't miss his brother's raised eyebrow. The White Wolf hauled to his feet and nodded at his fellow witcher. "If we're going hunting, we'd best prepare. C'mon, I've got potion ingredients to find. Don't know about you, but I've not restocked in a while." The two witchers left the pavilion.

Yennefer regarded the young woman chewing pensively at a fingertip. "We'll stay here till the boys return, Phoebe. That should give you ample time to recover your strength and to learn all about our world." The sorceress smiled, leaning forward to pat the girl's hand. "In the meantime, could you show me that map again? We can compare it to the one I have of the northern and southern kingdoms."

As the witchers rode out a bare hour later, Geralt cut a look at his companion. "Never had any woman implore me NOT to go kill the monster." He scratched along the side of his jaw at a patch of stubble.

Lambert snorted. "Phee's different, all right. Just hope this is worth it, for her sake." All things considered, Lambert had a bad feeling in his gut. His experience with sorceresses told him he wouldn't like the outcome of Yen's plans.

* * *

 _ **Tor Naev'demèir Méan'lleach -**_ Literally the Tower of the Nine Thieving Birds or Tower of the Magpies.

 _ **Tor A**_ _ **dyr'n -**_ Tower of the Sparrow


End file.
